


Never Letting You Go

by constellxtions



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 11x05, Gap Filler, Ian and Mickey just being husbands, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mickey wears Ian's shirt!, mentions of 2x02, mentions of 7x10, they go on a date, uncle Mickey!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellxtions/pseuds/constellxtions
Summary: As hard as he tries to fight that feeling, Mickey can't stop his own lips from curling up a little bit, as he asks, “Where the fuck do you wanna go?”And maybe his voice comes out a bit too dreamy, a bit too loud for his own ears, but he doesn’t care, really. It’s Ian, it’s his husband, it’s the only person he ever loved, the only person who ever loved him, the person he’s going to love forever.Ian sets his beer on the counter and takes a few steps towards him and he’s so close now that Mickey could reach out with his arm and touch him, grab him, draw him close and squeeze him. Never let him go.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 8
Kudos: 161





	Never Letting You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Just domestic, stupid husbands in love. Following the events of 11x05. Let's all just pretend no one noticed Terry laying on the ground.  
> Warnings for some very brief masturbation and dry humping (?), but it's not extremely graphic.  
> UPDATE: I really thought Mickey’s birthday was in 2x02, but after some research I realised it’s in 2x04 instead. Anyway, let’s pretend it was 2x02.

“Have we really just dumped a fucking corpse in a dumpster, Mickey?”

Ian’s voice pierces his ears, it’s so high-pitched that he snaps his head in his direction. He heard it. The worry. The panic. Ian seems concentrated on the road ahead of them, but Mickey can see it in his hands on the wheel, growing pale as he tightens his grip. His lips are a thin narrow line. 

He reaches out his hand and rests it on the back of his neck. He starts to lightly massage it with his thumb. Ian’s tense, but the touch seems to relax him a little bit. His lips open slightly and he leans into Mickey’s touch with his head. Mickey keeps rubbing his thumb along his skin, sometimes digging harder.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I know some people who will deal with it for fifty bucks.” 

When there is no reaction from Ian, Mickey fears his words might have upset him even more. But then Ian is sighing, relief flooding his face, and Mickey knows that he managed to calm him down. At least a little bit. At least for now. He sees it in his shoulders, dropping slightly. He sees it in his hands, slowly returning to pink. He nods his head, even, and then he moves his right hand from the wheel and rests it on Mickey’s thigh, palm up. Mickey can’t help himself from smiling as he gently lets go of Ian’s head to intertwine their fingers together.

“Soft motherfucker.” Ian’s palm is so soft and tender and it contrasts with the skin on the back, rough against Mickey’s lips as he kisses it. He feels Ian squeezing his and he starts playing with his wedding ring. When Mickey looks up at him, Ian’s still watching the road but he’s grinning widely. 

“And  _ I  _ am the soft motherfucker here, uhm?” He says and he just keeps smiling and it still surprises Mickey, sometimes, how Ian’s smile can have that effect on him, can leave him with his mouth hanging open, trying to catch his breath, as he can’t even bring himself to look away from him, because Ian’s beautiful as fuck, and so is his smile. 

Seeing that smile, after weeks of seeing so few of them, makes him believe that everything will be alright, at the end of the day. He’s sure about that. He’s never been so sure about anything else as he is about it. As long as he gets these moments, as long as he gets to admire Ian’s happy face in all his glory, everything will be alright. Mickey just knows. Nothing will ever change it. 

“Mickey?” Ian’s voice brings him back to reality. Ian’s voice, the one that reminds him so bad of that kid he used to meet up with in the backroom of the Kash&Grab. That kid who broke into his room, attacking him with a tire iron and who couldn’t have imagined he was going to save Mickey’s fucking life. The kid Mickey was willing to break down his walls for, the kid he fell so bad, so deeply for. The kid he could have never even imagined he was going to marry someday. He squeezes his hand. 

“Mhm?”

“Where the fuck are we going to park this giant thing we stole?”

Fuck. That’s a good question. There’s no way they are leaving it in front of the Gallagher house. Even parking it in the close proximity seems too risky. Not that the police would care that much, probably, about a stolen ambulance in the South Side, but it would probably end up being stolen by one of their fucking neighbours. Maybe even Terry would get the idea, if only to do them wrong again, to humiliate Mickey once again, because it’s never enough for him. It has never been enough for Terry.

They are risking going back to prison for this, Mickey won’t let anyone get in their way. They had to hide the ambulance somewhere, at least until Debbie got the chance to make some changes on it. 

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice brings him back to earth once again. He turns to face him. Ian’s slowing down. Mickey takes a look out of the window. They are close to home. He nods.

“Yeah, keep going for a couple more blocks. I know someone who can take care of it for now. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

\---

As they cross the threshold of the Gallagher house, there’s a loud bang coming from the kitchen. Someone slammed the door, hard. Ian looks at him as he shrugs. That’s nothing strange, not here. 

But as Ian’s taking off his jacket, Mickey notices Debbie on the couch, her shoulders are shaking slightly but there’s no sound coming from her. Thank fuck there’s Ian, because he wouldn’t know what to do. They aren’t close, if she’s crying, that’s not his business. Though it would still be an asshole move to leave her here alone. So when he turns towards Ian and sees his eyes going a bit wide, the frown on his face, he has to admit he is actually relieved. Ian wastes no time bridging the distance that separates him from his sister. 

“Hey Debs, what’s going on?” He asks as he sits beside her on the couch. He’s not even completely seated down when she puts her head on his shoulder. Ian runs a hand through her hair and then settles it around her shoulders. He’s saying something, but Mickey can’t hear him. He doesn’t want to hear what he’s saying, really. It’s not his business. So he turns around to go take a shower but something catches his eye, something dark green. Ian’s jacket on the back of the couch. He had to lay it there as he sat with Debbie. Mickey approaches slowly and takes it in his hands and, before he goes up the stairs, he brushes Ian’s head with his hand. And as he climbs the stairs, maybe,  _ maybe,  _ he sniffs the jacket a little bit.

\---

He just threw Ian’s jacket on their bed when he hears a series of small, soft steps getting closer and closer, getting louder and louder. He just has time to turn around and Franny’s shrieking, her little hands in the air, stretched out in his direction as she flings herself on him.

“Uncle Mickey!” She screams, and Mickey’s just in time to slightly lean forward and take her in his arms before she risks falling head down on the floor and breaking a tooth or something.

“Goddamnit, lil Red. Fucking warn a guy, maybe?” 

Franny giggles and puts her hands on his face, “Bad word, uncle Mickey!” 

“Bad word, huh?” In a quick movement, he turns his head and lays his lips on her little cheek and blows a raspberry there. 

“Ew! Uncle Mickey, no!” Franny puts her hands directly on his face, trying to push away his face and then she starts wriggling out of his grip. He puts her down. She looks at him, frowning, like she wants to burn him alive with her eyes. It’s like looking at a little version of Ian. He ruffles her hair and sits on the bed, starting to untie the laces of his boots when Franny hops on the bed beside him. 

“Why do you and uncle Ian always wear the same clothes?” She asks and Mickey notices she’s looking at his pants. He smiles and kicks off one boot. 

“We don’t  _ always _ wear the same clothes, Red,” he says while he kicks off the other one, “It’s for our job.” 

“What job do you and uncle Ian do?” She’s looking at him curiously with those big eyes that remind him a lot of Ian. He stands and takes off the jacket as well.

“Security.” He says, looking through the room in search of his towel. He finds it hanging besides Ian’s near their closet. He grabs it and turns around, “Look, I’m gonna take a shower, alright?” Franny pouts and crosses her tiny arms on her chest, looking at him with what should be the anger of a five year old. Mickey puts his hand on his own face, running a thumb over one of his eyebrows, “Jesus christ, Red. Why don’t you go find Ian and ask  _ him _ all the fucking questions you want, huh? What do you say?” 

This seems enough to get the little brat out of his way. Not that she bothers him, really. But it’s 8:00 AM and Mickey wants to take a fucking shower, something that the other red girl in this house has already ruined for him, since his initial plan was to have Ian in the tub with him, a quick fuck or even just mutual blowjobs. Or both. Yeah, probably both. Definitely both. Now Mickey can only imagine that. Maybe he’ll manage to get off by himself.

\---

The water is hot, as strange as it sounds. The pressure is awful, as usual, but the water is hot. He feels it on his skin, turning redder and redder. But it’s good, soothing. It would be even better if Ian was here on his knees, of course, but as he looks down he sees that his dick isn’t entirely soft. Maybe it was the water, or maybe the thought of Ian taking his cock into his mouth, sucking him off under the water. Yeah, it was probably it. 

Mickey’s hand moves down of its own accord, reaching for his dick and he starts to slowly,  _ slowly,  _ move his hand up and down. The water makes the movement more fluid and just the thought of Ian kissing and sucking the head of his dick, of his hands gripping his balls leaves him open-mouthed, gasping for air and as he keeps going, the harder it gets. The faster he strokes his dick, the harder it’s for Mickey to keep standing. He can feel his legs starting to go limp, starting to shake, he knows his knees are about to give in. As he strokes with one hand, he has to hold on to the wall with the other, trying not to slip into the tub. His hand is faster and faster and his dick is so hard Mickey thinks it’s going to explode, he can’t even keep his eyes open. He’s thinking about one of Ian’s hands squeezing his ass, his red hair brushing against his belly, his other hand stroking up and down his thigh in soothing motions. Ian’s eyes, ecstatic, hungry, watching him, piercing through his soul as his mouth is working on his dick and Mickey is so close, so fucking close-

“Mickey!”

“Fuck!” He fucking  _ screams,  _ opening his eyes and jumping backwards, his back slamming against the wall. He’s about to fall in the tub and probably crack his fucking skull open as Ian’s arm comes to his rescue, out of nowhere, wrapping around his waist.

“Gotcha,” he says.

Once he regains a bit of balance, he pushes Ian’s arm away from him. He’s sure his heart stopped beating for a moment. It takes a few seconds for his breathing to return to its normal pace. Ian’s grinning and Mickey has to muster all his strength in order not to strangle him right there. Instead, he just punches him on the arm.

“Ow!” Ian cries out and Mickey  _ knows  _ his skin isn’t red because of the hot water, not anymore, but because of the anger he feels boiling in his stomach.

“What the fuck, Ian! You just gave me a fucking stroke, for fuck’s sake!” He yells and punches Ian again, even though not so hard like the first time. He might be an asshole, but he’s still his asshole, the one he fucking married. He doesn’t want him to bruise.

“Ok, alright, sorry! Fuck!” Ian yells, and he rolls his eyes and Mickey wants to punch him again, “But it’s not my fault you were so busy getting off by yourself you didn’t hear me.”

“So it seems fucking normal to you to scream my name if I didn’t fucking hear you?” 

He’s yelling too now, and Ian’s screaming again too and for the next couple minutes all they do is yell at each other. There’s no way the others can’t hear them from downstairs, but who gives a fuck. Fuck him for thinking they could spend at least one,  _ one,  _ fucking evening together, without fighting, no screaming, no annoyed looks. More smiles. More fucking. 

And yet here they are, yelling at each other for the millionth time. It seems like their marriage comes down to this, now. Yelling and yelling and even more yelling. Mickey doesn’t want his marriage to the person he loves more than anything on this planet to come down to this. He doesn’t. He’s seen Ian smiling today,  _ really smiling,  _ for the first time in what must have been two weeks. It was the first time they had fun, even, in who knows how long.

And now they are ruining everything, as they always do, like the idiots they are. But Mickey doesn’t want to ruin everything, not again. He doesn’t want to ruin this bubble of comfort they had found themselves in all day, in which they were still floating when they got home, before Ian gave him a fucking stroke. 

Mickey has stopped screaming by now and Ian is still saying something, he’s waving his hands in the air, and Mickey feels the hot water still running down his body and before he can think twice, before he can think about what he’s doing, one of his hands is under the water stream and, with a swift movement, he splashes some on Ian’s face. Well, his face was the target. But not only his face is wet. His face, his hair, his t-shirt, which immediately glues itself to Ian’s chest and Mickey can see his nipples through it now, and maybe he’s getting hard again.

Ian doesn’t say anything for an embarrassing amount of time. He just stands there, his eyes closed and his lips glued together, forming a thin line. His left hand is in the air, still. He’s fucking hilarious.

When he finally opens his eyes to the sound of Mickey’s laughter, he looks like he wants to burn him alive with his eyes. Mickey laughs even harder.

“That’s so amusing to you, huh?” Ian says, finally, and his voice betrays him, it’s completely the opposite of the look on his face, and he should know he cannot hide it from Mickey, because Mickey knows him better than anything, better than he knows himself. 

So when Ian finally  _ smiles,  _ it’s not really a surprise, not to Mickey, and yet he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and he has to hold on onto something in order not to fall. He holds onto Ian, his lifeline, his  _ husband.  _ His whole world. 

They end up kissing, of course. Mickey gets his hands on Ian’s hips and drags him in the tub, with him, on him. Ian lets himself be dragged, no hesitation, not even bothering taking off his shirt, laying on Mickey as he keeps kissing him. Mickey completely naked. Ian completely dressed. Completely wet. 

Mickey’s hands wander on Ian’s body, settling on his head, gripping his short and sweet curls as Ian’s mouth devours his. His lips are wet and soft, they taste like mint -maybe he washed his teeth while he was jerking off. Ian’s little nose is pressed against his cheek as his giant hands move up and down his hips. 

It is probably the most uncomfortable and awkward position to get anything done, but when Mickey feels Ian’s erection building up against his own, he has to break the kiss to breathe, and he breathes straight into Ian’s mouth. His hands leave his hair then, moving down to grab at his ass, squeezing it hard, drawing him closer, pressing their bodies against each other, extremely, painfully close. Yet not enough. It is never enough. Ian’s never enough. Ian, who now is heavily panting inside Mickey’s mouth as he starts rubbing his clothed dick, hard, against his and Mickey wants nothing more than to take those damn pants off him. But their position is what it is, and the pants are now completely stuck to Ian’s butt so he will have to make do with Ian thrusting his hips against his cock.

Not that it’s not enough, for Mickey. He wants Ian in any way he can get him, and hearing him panting like this, feeling his hot breaths against the skin of his neck it’s more than enough for Mickey.

He wraps his arms around Ian’s shoulders, he strokes his back with one hand as Ian gets him so close, so damn close. Then Ian, without stopping, not even for a second, raises his head, enough to look at Mickey, enough to look at him that way, as if there’s no one in the whole world, no one but them. Then he’s leaning in and his lips are on his once more, they suck, hungryly and he’s thrusting faster and harder and Mickey loves him, he loves him so fucking much.

“Ian,” he pants and Ian nods, as if he knew everything Mickey would like to tell him in this moment and Mickey knows it’s impossible because the things he wants to tell him are countless, endless.

But then Ian says,  _ pants, _ “Come, Mickey,” and that’s okay in this moment, because maybe that’s just what Mickey wanted to tell him. So he comes, releasing a strangled moan that caughts him off guard too, but only for a second because Ian’s coming too, in his fucking pants, and his panting breath is the most sexy shit Mickey’s ever heard and he knows he will never have enough of it, ever and never.

\---

“Hey, pizza for dinner? What do you say?”

Ian just took off his wet clothes and he’s entering the tub now to give himself a quick rinse. Mickey’s brushing his teeth, butt naked. He spits in the sink.

“Works for me, man. As long as you don’t eat half of mine again.” 

He reaches down to pick up Ian’s clothes from the bathroom floor, realising it’s not an easy thing to do when you’re still brushing your teeth with your other hand. Whatever, he manages to do it, somehow. There’s a big come stain just on the crotch of the pants and Mickey, without thinking twice, brings it under the water tap, trying to wash away the come that’s already drying with his hand. He thinks that maybe it’s a bit gross but, well, whatever, who fucking cares. It is certainly not the first time he touches Ian’s come. To be fair, he did a lot more than only touch it in the past ten years. So if he wants to fucking wash away his husband’s come from his pants, he fucking will. 

As Ian finishes washing himself, Mickey wraps the towel around his waist and comes out of the bathroom, Ian’s pants and t-shirt in his hand. He throws them on the pile of clothes in the hallway. No camo pants for Ian tomorrow, apparently. They’ll figure something out.

Once he’s in their room, he puts on a black wife beater and a pair of blue boxers. He leaves the light on for Ian and goes downstairs. 

The house is strangely quiet. There’s only Carl in the kitchen, too busy typing on his phone to pay him much attention. Not that he cares. At least he finally took off that horrible blue uniform. Mickey was really starting to think he wore it to go to sleep too.

He makes his way to the fridge and takes the usual beer bottle. 

“Where the fuck’s everybody?” Not that he minds, really, a bit of peace and quiet around here from time to time. But maybe he just got so used to the constant chatter, to the too small kitchen to fit all the people constantly going back and forth, bumping into each other, spilling every kind of liquid everywhere. Maybe he got so used to it, that silence is something abnormal, even, now. Silence was never a good thing for Mickey, not in the Milkovich house at least. The silence Mickey grew up with usually meant that Terry would have not tolerated the slightest noise. It meant that he beat one of them for the millionth time, leaving the others in fear. A fear too great to even speak, too great to make a single move.

It scared him a little bit, at first. The noise. Constant, loud. People fighting with each other, but never like in the Milkovich house, making up shortly after. A kid running around as if she lived in a fucking castle. It was weird, for Mickey. But it was also domestic, kind of. Something he never had. Mornings full of people around the table, talking about stupid shit, how were they going to spend their day. Just because. It was weird, and then it was normal, it was his life, his family. So now, the silence is making him slightly anxious. He’s even grateful when Carl finally speaks. 

“Debbie’s in the living room. Don’t fucking know what’s gotten into her,” he says, not even bothering to look up at him. Mickey takes a long sip of beer, “Liam locked himself in his room, don’t know what’s gotten into him either. Franny’s probably sleeping, or she’d be here busting our balls.” Mickey snorts. He likes the kid. She might be a lot, sometimes. But he still likes her. He certainly likes her better than Carl. 

Not really knowing what to do, Mickey takes a seat at the other end of the table and keeps drinking his beer. When he turns his face to the right, he sees the redhead sitting on the couch in the exact same way as earlier. What the fuck’s with everybody tonight?

After what seems like a fucking eternity, a tortourous eternity of embarassing silence, he hears Ian’s footsteps on the stairs. He’s relieved. He feels Ian’s hand brushing his head as he passes by him to open the fridge, in search of something to drink. It’s then that Mickey notices that he’s dressed, not as in an undershirt and boxers dressed, no. He’s wearing his tight black jeans, those that drive Mickey crazy, a navy t-shirt and his black boots. His hair is slightly wet and the skin of his arms is still a bit red from the shower. He’s fucking beautiful. 

“Excuse me?” He asks then, recovering from his thoughts. He waits for Ian to turn. When he does, he continues, “Where the fuck are you going?”

Ian’s looking at him curiously now, a beer in his hand. He slowly runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Then he smiles, “Don’t look at me like this.” He finally says and Mickey knows then,  _ he fucking knows,  _ that he’s blushing like a fucking tomato. Ian laughs then. He  _ laughs,  _ the asshole. He fucking giggles, even, and Mickey has to raise an eyebrow in order to make him stop. 

“Alright, alright. I’m done,” he takes a sip of his beer as he leans with his elbows on the counter, “ _ We, _ ” he points with his hand first at himself and then at Mickey and then, as if it wasn’t enough -as if Mickey didn’t fucking know that  _ we  _ refers to them, Ian and Mickey, Mickey and Ian-, he does it again, twice, “are going out. I called for pizza, it’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Mickey wants to make sure he got enough for the both of them, but before he can say anything, Ian’s smiling again, “ _ Yes,  _ Mickey, I got three.”

As hard as he tries to fight that feeling, Mickey cannot stop his own lips from curling up a little bit, as he asks, “Where the fuck do you wanna go?” 

And maybe his voice comes out a bit too dreamy, a bit too loud for his own ears, but he doesn’t care, really. It’s Ian, it’s his husband, it’s the only person he ever loved, the only person who ever loved  _ him, _ the person he’s going to love forever.

Ian sets his beer on the counter and takes a few steps towards him and he’s so close now that Mickey could reach out with his arm and touch him, grab him, draw him close and squeeze him. Never let him go. 

But there’s Carl at the other end of the table, fucking Carl.

But well, Carl can go fuck himself. If he has something to say, it’d be better for him if he doesn’t. He can get up and fuck off, for what he cares.

So Mickey stretches out his arms and Ian’s waist is in his hands. He traces little circles on it with his thumb as he gets completely, hopelessly lost in Ian’s eyes. 

Ian’s hands are on his head and Mickey feels gentle tugs on his hair, “Uhm, I have an idea.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow, “Oh yeah? Any intention on sharing it with me, maybe?”

Ian smiles then, with that soft look of his on his face, and then he’s leaning and his lips are brushing against Mickey’s forehead and Mickey never would have thought that a kiss on his fucking forehead could make him feel like this, like he could fucking fly right now. Yet Mickey feels he is the most lucky motherfucker on this planet because he’s the only one that gets to have Ian. He wonders, sometimes, how it is fucking possible that no one else loves Ian the way Mickey loves him. Because it’s Ian, and not loving Ian with all your soul doesn’t seem fair. Ian deserves to be loved like this. It’s what Mickey’s been doing for years now, even when he was trying so hard to move on. Even then, he couldn’t help but love him with all his soul. That’s what he’s planning to do till the end of his days. As long as his heart beats, it’s Ian Gallagher’s. 

“Nope,” Ian says, and Mickey doesn’t even remember what he’s answering to. Ian slaps him slightly on the cheek, “But you can go put something on your ass while we wait for our pizza.”

Mickey rolls his eyes as Ian goes back to the fridge, opening it and rummaging inside.

“Jesus christ, alright,” he finally says as he gets up from the chair. He grabs the beer bottle and takes a last sip before going upstairs to change.

\---

As he comes back downstairs, Ian’s paying the pizza guy at the door.

“Jesus, how much deodorant did you put on yourself, man?” Carl’s voice takes him by surprise. He knew he was still sitting there, but he hasn’t been of many words till now. Mickey flips him off, but it doesn’t seem enough, “Fuck off,” he says then, and he’s fucking grateful when Carl gets back at looking at his phone. He put on  _ a bit  _ of deodorant, so what? He wants to smell alright for his fucking husband who wants to go out to eat pizza with him, so fucking what? He doesn’t even know why Carl’s comment made him so nervous, but it did. So when Ian makes his way through the kitchen, carrying three boxes of pizza in his arms, when his eyes roam up and down Mickey’s body, he feels better. Definitely better. Especially when he fucking  _ whistles.  _ And maybe now he feels even too good and he’s sure he’s blushing again and Ian’s going to say something now, he knows it. 

But Ian doesn’t say anything, choosing to dwell on something on Mickey’s body, apparently, because he stops abruptly in front of him and he frowns. Mickey’s about to ask him what the fuck he’s looking at, but Ian doesn’t give him the chance.

“Are you wearing  _ my  _ shirt?” He asks, and Mickey doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but surely he wasn’t expecting this. He looks down and takes a look at himself. It’s a light grey shirt with long sleeves, buttoned at the neck. It’s pretty obvious it’s Ian’s, mostly because the sleeves cover half of his hands. He didn’t even pay that much attention to it, actually. It’s the first shirt he found, and it looked good with his black ripped jeans and his brown timbs, so he put it on. Their clothes lay all together in every drawer, in every corner of the bedroom. It might be messy, but it works for them. There’s no degree of separation when it comes to their closet. Even their boxers are all mixed together. There is no  _ Ian section  _ or  _ Mickey section.  _ Everything they have in their bedroom belongs to both of them. They never talked about it, actually, just as they don’t talk about many other things. But it worked till now, so Mickey doesn’t see why they should stop doing it. And if he’s wearing Ian’s shirt, without even noticing it was Ian’s, well. Whatever. It’s not the end of the world.

“So what?” He asks then, and he knows Ian would never have any issue with Mickey wearing his clothes, but he still feels too exposed now. First the deodorant, now the shirt. Maybe this  _ date  _ wasn’t that great of an idea, after all. Maybe it’s better if they stay home instead of risking ending up fighting again. Maybe-

“Nothing. You look good. You’re cute.”

He wants to punch him, now. He wants to punch him simply because he feels his face heating up again, and it’s Ian’s and his stupid comments’ fault. But more than anything he wants to kiss him, more than anything else. But he still called him  _ cute,  _ and Ian doesn’t deserve any kiss for this.

“Fuck you, man. I ain’t cute,” he says, and his voice is way more harsh than what he’s feeling inside, but Ian doesn’t buy it, of course.

“Mhm. Can you get the blanket on the washing machine?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes but he does as he’s asked. The blanket looks like shit, it’s old and it has holes in it. It’s dirty, even. Maybe it should spend more time  _ inside  _ the fucking washing machine instead of laying on top of it. Fucking Gallaghers. 

“The fuck do we need a blanket for, anyway?”

Ian’s already reaching for the back door, “Get the beer as well, beside the table.”

There’s a six pack on the floor at the corner of the table near the door and Mickey reaches down and grabs it. “Yeah, don’t fucking answer me, please,” he mumbles and when he sees Ian’s not wearing anything over his t-shirt, he adds, “Hey! Would you take a goddamn jacket with you or you want to freeze your ass off?”

Ian ignores him, of course, and he’s already out of the house, so Mickey snorts and takes Ian’s denim jacket from the hanger for him.

Before he gets out, Carl opens his stupid mouth again, “A romantic picnic, huh?” 

Mickey glances at him, flipping him off, “Shut the fuck up,” he says, and then he slams the door behind him.

\---

“Fuck, how long have we not been here, huh?”

Mickey isn’t even that surprised Ian brought him here. There aren’t many places outdoors in the South Side where you can spend some time, not without being beaten up or killed, at least. But the high school bleachers were always their spot, their secret spot. He didn’t know he had missed this place, not until now. They did  _ everything _ down here, and it will forever be one of Mickey’s favourite places in the world.

Ian puts the boxes on the ground and he reaches out to help Mickey spread the blanket out when he stops, one corner of the blanket in hand. He looks at him and grins, “You mean since that time you escaped out of prison and you got me kidnapped by your friends?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes again, for what seems like the millionth time that day. They spread the blanket out and sit on it, “They weren’t my friends,” Mickey says as he takes out his pack of Marlboros and lights up one, as Ian mumbles something under his breath, “And, anyway, they didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

“If they did something to me they would have been dead for a long time now.” Ian looks at him, one of his eyebrows raised so high on his forehead and, goddamnit, he’s fucking  _ adorable.  _

“You bet, no one touches what’s mine.”

Ian’s full-on smiling now and he’s leaning towards him and Mickey thinks he wants to kiss him. So he leans forward too, but Ian doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he snatches the cigarette from his hand and brings it to his lips, grinning like the asshole he is.

“Jesus, Ian. I just threw the pack beside your stupid ass, why don’t you light one for yourself instead of busting my balls?” He’s not yelling, but it’s late, and it’s dark, and it’s quiet and they are still in the South Side, so they both end up looking around. No one seems to have heard them, so Mickey turns his head to Ian, who gives him the cigarette back.

“I like smoking yours,” he looks down as he says it, as if he’s shy about it, and Mickey’s sure that if it wasn’t for the darkness he could see his cheeks gaining color, gradually turning red. Ian shakes his shoulders, “It has your taste.”

Ian’s looking at him now, he can feel his eyes breaching through his body, straight to his soul, straight to his heart. His lips are forming a thin line and Mickey knows exactly what he wants. So he wastes no time in leaning his head forward, just as Ian does the same, “You’re a fucking weirdo, Gallagher,” he says before closing his eyes, before feeling Ian’s soft lips on his. He sucks at them and then Mickey feels his tongue, impatient, needy. He opens his mouth to let it in and Mickey will never stop believing this is the best feeling in the world. Kissing Ian. He will never stop wondering why the fuck he waited so long to do it for the first time, so many years ago, in the van, right before a drunk old bitch shot him in the ass. He will never stop asking himself why he wasted so much time.

He can’t hold back from putting his hands on Ian’s face. He doesn’t have to hold back, so he does it. His cheeks are so soft, softer than ever and Mickey loves them so much. He loves having that bit of extra skin between his fingers, he loves to stroke them, kiss them. He loves them just as much as he loves everything about Ian. Every single inch of his body. 

Mickey would spend hours kissing him, but Ian’s already slowing down and before Mickey can hold him against him and tighten his grip on him and never let him go, Ian breaks the kiss and both of them gasp for air, breathless. Mickey’s hands are still on Ian’s cheeks, Ian’s on his, when Ian slightly nods towards the boxes, “Pizza’s going to get cold,” he says, stifling a laugh and Mickey laughs too because he couldn’t care less about the damn pizza in this moment.

Ian gives him a last quick peck on the lips and then he starts opening up one of the boxes. Mickey takes two beers, passing one to Ian, who takes a long gulp. Mickey punches him on the arm, “Hey, slow the fuck down, you still have to take your meds.”

And if some years ago Ian would have punched him in the face for saying something like this, today he almost chokes as he abruptly stops sipping the beer, moving his head up and down again and again, as if he forgot alcohol messes with his meds. Mickey ends up smiling cause he’s hilarious right now and something comfortable settles between them now, when they talk about it. It’s not a topic they have to tiptoe around anymore, or simply ignore completely. They are married, Ian is his husband and Mickey’s always going to worry for him and for his health. Ian must have come to terms with that by now, and he seems even happy about it. To have someone worrying for him, someone who cares.

Ian runs a hand over his lips, “I was thirsty,” he says then, and he smiles shyly and, as cheesy as it sounds, that’s the most beautiful thing Mickey’s ever seen. He rubs a hand on Ian’s arm and then they keep eating, talking about everything and nothing, about Mickey wanting to kill Lou for even daring pointing his fucking gun on Ian. They kiss once in a while, between bites of pizza, and their breaths are horrible by now, but whatever. Mickey grabs another beer as Ian stands up to go piss near the fence.

When he comes back, he moves the empty boxes to the side and lays down on his back beside Mickey, who’s still sitting. Mickey doesn’t lay down right away, he lights up another cigarette and, as he finishes his beer, he looks down at Ian’s face in the dark. A weak ray of light is reflected on it, coming from a street lamp nearby. When Ian looks at him, he smiles and puts one hand on his thigh. Mickey takes it on his own and can’t help himself from playing a bit with his ring. It’s a habit he feels he will never get rid of.

When there’s nothing more of the cigarette between his fingers, except for the filter, he stubs it on the grass and lays down beside Ian as they look at the sky, still hand in hand.

Ian brings their intertwined hands to his lips and kisses Mickey’s, and Mickey has never felt more lucky than this in his entire life.

“Remember when you got out of juvie and we came here?” He asks, his voice just a simple whisper, yet able to breach through the silence.

“Mhm.”

“Do you remember asking me if I wanted to spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?”

Mickey laughs. Of course he does. He remembers every single moment he spent with Ian. Every single second. He couldn’t forget any of them, even if he wanted to. And there are some things he’d like to erase from his memory. But  _ that night,  _ that night will always be one of his favourite moments, the moment he maybe realised,  _ maybe,  _ that he liked Ian a little bit. And maybe there’s also another reason as to why that day is imprinted in his memory so vividly. He braces himself and takes a deep breath. 

“Mhm. That day. It was kinda… my birthday.”

He doesn’t know why his heart starts to beat so fast and so loud he fears even Ian can hear it, but he cannot bring himself to look at him now, so he stares at the sky above them instead. He hears Ian shifting next to him and, as he swallows down the lump that has formed in his throat, he turns his head too. Ian’s looking at him and his eyes are wide, his eyebrows so high on his forehead it seems they want to hop out of his face. Mickey breathes. Waits. 

“What?” 

That’s the only thing that leaves Ian’s mouth, and it’s amusing because it’s so obvious, it’s more than obvious for Mickey, that there are a thousand things Ian wants to say in this moment. So Mickey smiles and nods. Ian opens his mouth and he stays like that, stunned, for who knows how long before he frowns, “Why didn’t you tell me, that day?”

Mickey shrugs, “Don’t know. It wasn’t a big deal. It’s not like I celebrated my birthdays or whatever.”

“I would have gotten you a gift.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and he’s sure Ian can see him, but whatever, “Shut up,” Then, feeling extremely brave, he looks away from Ian’s eyes, looking down at their fingers, still intertwined, and whispers, “Spending the night with you was a pretty good fucking gift.”

When he looks up, Ian’s mouth is hanging open and his eyes seem wet and he’s looking at him with that look that always manages to make his legs feel like jello everytime. Ian kisses him then, and it’s sweet and gentle and his lips are the best thing in the world. Ian’s the best thing in the world. He feels something wet on his cheek and when he lets go of Ian’s mouth, lifting his head with his hands so he can look him in the face, Ian’s crying, a little bit. And Mickey feels a little bit overwhelmed in that moment, and maybe neither his eyes are completely dry now, because that kid who just got out of juvie, on his birthday, secretly excited at just the idea to see Ian again, to have him inside him again after all those months, that kid would never in a million years have imagined that one day he would get to have  _ this.  _

Ian laughs then and he’s a bit out of breath, and he’s stroking his cheek as he says, more serious than ever, “I love you, Mickey.”

Mickey smiles and draws him closer, holding him closer, harder than humanly possible, “I love you, too.”

He doesn’t want to let him go ever again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Got a bit carried away with this, but well. Thank you for reading! Hope you liked it. Kudos and comments are appreciated!  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/constellxtions_) ♡


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